Felicity rose to follow, purposely not glancing in Victor’s direction — if that kiss had meant anything to him, he would have spoken to her by now, not be giving her the silent treatment, right? — cracking her knuckles as she trudged down the steps. She could almost feel Carmen breathing down her neck.
Everyone was trying to throw her off her game — they were constantly reminding her of that fact — but she was just getting on it.
“We are gathered here for your third challenge. The winner of this challenge will be allowed to manipulate the third elimination challenge,” the show’s host began her spiel. The garish neon green of her suit almost hurt his eyes. “At this point, each and every one of you should be taking this very seriously. We started with seven. There are now five. One of you will be going home this week. One of you will go on to become the next bestseller, 100,000 dollars richer, with a publishing contract in hand.”
Victor struggled to focus, to get his mind off Felicity, her soft lips, the hurt glances she cast his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. Did she really think he’d kissed her for ratings? Well, it was better if she did.
He hadn’t spoken to her since, and he knew it was messing with her head, but despite his desire to win, that wasn’t his agenda.
He had to stay away from her to save himself, to save himself from distraction, to save himself from that accusing look of appalled shock that would cross her face if she knew the truth.
“Today’s guest is a social media coach. Mari Fouts has been a social networking coach for five years, and she’s going to be judging you today.” Ophelia stepped aside and began clapping for the tall, thin lady with short black hair who stepped from behind the screen.
“Hello, everyone. Ms. West has done a great job introducing me already, so I’ll get right down to business. With today’s social media, there are a thousand ways to promote your book, but it is now flooded with everything and everyone. It’s my job to help authors stand out above the rest, make themselves visible, and attract readers utilizing everything from Facebook, blogging, Yahoo, Pinterest. You name it, I help authors use it.”
Roy cleared his throat and raised his hand. At her nod, he asked, “Do people hire you just to tell them what to do?”
Victor had been wondering the same thing.
“Yes. You could say that.” The woman beamed at them. “I prefer the word advise. I advise them on what to say or how to present themselves on certain social media sites as well as determine what type of marketing and promotion works best for their type of book. I’ve helped at least fifty bestselling authors attain their success.”
“Can we get some names?” Victor inserted. He was trying hard to get good and distracted by the challenge at hand.
“I’m afraid not. Confidentiality clauses and all that.”
“I thought the publisher did all this.” Carmen crossed her arms and glared slightly. She probably thought this was another waste-of-time challenge.
“Not any more,” Mari replied. “With the amount of books releasing daily now, it takes a lot more than publisher marketing. You must market too, and the key is to — oh, I better not say, because that’s what this challenge is about.” She winked in their general direction before turning to Ophelia. “Ophelia.”
“Ms. Fouts is right. Your challenge today is to start a social networking platform. For today only, the Internet will be provided in your writers’ caves. You will be assigned one book to promote, a book from your chosen genre, and you will have five hours to try and sell a few copies via social media. You are not allowed to bribe readers or spend money. The Amazon link to your ‘book’ is waiting for you in your caves. That is the link you will promote.” Ophelia turned her gaze on Felicity. “Felicity, you now have the fireplace cave. Your story won the most votes with our viewers and readers. Congratulations.” Ophelia’s lips twitched. “I find it rather fitting you chose to write about a chimney sweep and a lady of the manor.”
“Thank you,” Felicity murmured.
Victor felt a rush of pride, but tamped it down. Had the situation not been what it was, he’d love to swoop her up into a congratulatory kiss, the way a proud boyfriend would. Carmen had tried to play games, and she’d lost.
“Now,” Ophelia caught his attention again, “you can use any social media site you can find, but you are not to mention the show in any way. Your identity is anonymous. Your fake name is the name on the assigned book. Five hours.” She held up all five fingers. “And your time starts … now.”
Felicity settled into her new writer’s cave. The chair was plush leather and very comfortable. The fake fire flickered in its enclosed grate. Soft jazz played on a radio in the corner. Yet, she couldn’t relax and enjoy the moment.
She was glad this challenge had nothing to do with writing, because at the moment she felt more like a damsel in distress, confused, aching for a man, not like the heroines she enjoyed writing at all.
What game was Victor Guzman playing? He didn’t strike her as the type to let her walk away if she’d falsely accused him. No, he would have fixed things. That’s what good people did, people like Victor. But you threw some pretty heavy words his way and then stomped out like a child. Why should he? Now that anger had receded somewhat, she was starting to doubt her initial accusations. Guilt was replacing ire.
Maybe I really do belong in the little girl’s room.
Ten minutes after she’d accused him of it, she’d gone to find him, but he was nowhere to be found.
And since then — silence. She hadn’t gotten the nerve to approach him, and he hadn’t approached her.
She stared at the black curtain separating her writer’s cave from the rest of the building. He was across from her, in his little coffee shop. Was he thinking of her? Did his lips tingle too? A small part of her wished she hadn’t moved rooms.
And oh, hell, had the judges watched the loft feed? Was that kiss going to be aired on television? Her face heated at the thought.
As she swung her leg over the side of the armchair, she realized she’d just nibbled her pencil eraser down to the quick. She felt like she was in high school again. She was as confused as a high school girl. One minute she wanted to plant her lips on Victor’s, the next she was afraid he was playing games.
With a sigh, she eyed her laptop on the table. It was time to get busy. She had only five hours to sell some books, and she had to find out what the book was first. No more wasting time.
But where would she find readers in five hours?
She shifted in her chair and with her foot, pulled on a table leg until she was able to drag the table within a comfortable working distance.
Facebook? Obvious choice, but how would she do it with a new account and no friends? That’d be tough.
Google Plus? She wasn’t confident enough using that site.
Then it came to her. Go where the readers are.
She typed away, frowned, typed some more, and chewed her bottom lip until five hours later, she heard the words, “Time’s up. Fingers off keyboards, please. Leave your laptops where they are and convene in front of the desk in thirty minutes.”
Eek. I hope this worked.
“You have just completed your third minor challenge: online promotion. The winner of this challenge will be allowed to manipulate the third elimination challenge,” Ophelia said as soon as all five of the contestants were gathered in front of the desk. “Ms. Fouts.” She gestured to the coach sitting to her right.
Ms. Fouts grinned and after a glance at the paper in front of her, chose her first victim. “Felicity.”
Felicity hoped it was a good sign that she was going first. Surely, they’d save the harshest of criticism. “Yes.” Her voice wavered a little bit. Her nerves were beginning to feel shot. Damn you, Victor. Damn you and your lips.
“Tell me why you chose to do most of your marketing on Goodreads?”
That’s easy. “Well, that’s where the readers are and I figured I couldn’t make much progress in five
hours with a new account and no friends on other sites.”
“Excellent thinking,” the coach agreed with a nod. “I notice you didn’t waste time with friend requests, but joined a few groups and talked about books you’ve read. You placed the book cover as your profile photo. Very subtle. But …” the woman paused to stare at her penetratingly, “you only sold one copy.”
Felicity’s shoulders slumped. “What? Are you serious? I mean —”
“It probably wouldn’t have hurt to mention something about the book at some point. But though Goodreads is a great place to find readers, unless the book’s free … eh, it won’t work.” Ms. Fouts shrugged. “In the five hours you were given, you should have joined more than one site. Not a win for you, but definitely a great idea. A site like this just takes more time. You can’t barge into a group and mention your book right off the bat without getting reprimanded or berated as a spammer.”
Felicity nodded, feeling stung and disappointed. Oh, well, you wanted to learn. Lesson learned.
“Roy,” Mr. Brown called.
“Sir.” The military writer stepped forward, shoulders squared.
“You sold six copies. You chose not one, but three venues. Want to tell the others what you did?”
“Sir, I joined Yahoo groups, where people were talking about military literature. I also tweeted and used hashtags related to my book, such as military fiction and stuff. I spent a good hour tweeting others, and they began to tweet me.” Roy looked proud of himself, and with good reason. He hadn’t received much harsh criticism, but neither had he warranted a glowing report yet either. “The last thing I did was find military associates on Google Plus and post links to my activity there.”
“Indeed, and this worked out well for you. But I think the key here was you talked about yourself and your experiences. That immediately drew people to you. Sell yourself, not your books. Good job.”
“Victor,” Ms. Roberts said.
Felicity watched him from the corner of her eye, but his facial expression remained neutral.
“You sold none. Can you guess what you did wrong?”
He winced. “Well, if it requires selling ourselves, I’m screwed. I’m not a very social person.”
Not true. You were pretty social up until recently.
“You did your marketing on Amazon, and nothing says ‘I’m desperate to sell books’ than posting a link to it over and over in Amazon forums. This turns readers off, not on. It’s like …” she paused to chew her bottom a lip, a thoughtful expression on her face, “… like people knocking on your door to sell you a vacuum. They interrupt your dinner, your conversation with your kids to try to sell you stuff. You barged into these Amazon forums — some not even related to your genre — and said, literally, ‘buy my book. It’s the best thing you’ll ever read’. You just interrupted their threads. No difference.”
“Makes sense.”
“Carmen.” The coach had that constipated look, not much different from Mr. Brown’s.
“Yep.” Cockiness and attitude radiated off the women’s fiction writer.
“You used Facebook, and while Facebook is a necessary evil, can you tell me what you did wrong?”
“Nothing.” Carmen tossed her head. “I friended people, made an event, and invited them. The event was my book’s release.”
“You sold one. What you did wrong here was friend a bunch of authors. If people aren’t buying their books, do you think they have money to buy yours?”
“I don’t care if their books are selling or not.”
“And that is where you are going wrong. You must help them to get them to help you. Not one of these authors shared your event or link. They were all just wanting you to buy their books. This ploy just irritates people. You didn’t even get to know them, just threw a book out there. If you do some research, you’ll find that it’s a major turnoff to have someone friend you and immediately send them a link to your book. This won’t work at all.”
“I’m not worried.” Carmen crossed her arms. “I will have a publisher and an agent do all that for me. ‘Sides, I sold more than that mofo.” She cocked her head in Victor’s direction.
“Moving on,” Ophelia announced. “Dez.”
“Yes.”
“You started a website, and I must say, it has the coolest ever graphics on it.”
“Thanks.” His body visibly straightened.
“But you spent all your time designing a website. You have no one to follow it. And while I agree a website is necessary for long-term sales, you must get people to follow the darned thing before you sell any books, so just how did you try to sell books?” Ophelia sat back in her chair and shook her head.
“I tweeted it and started a Facebook page. I also had a contest on the website.”
“Great long-term plan, but I would have suggested a blog first. You draw followers that way, with constant posting. You did not sell any either. I don’t see why anybody would buy a book that they were trying to win. Anyone in their right mind would wait and see if they won it first. Your plan, again, was a great long-term plan, but horrible for today’s challenge.”
“Damn.”
“It’s pretty evident Roy won this one.” Ophelia turned her gaze onto the sunburned man. “Roy, you have the manipulation rights to the third elimination challenge.”
“Congrats, man.” Victor patted Roy on the back, surprising Felicity. It was the first nice thing he’d said in days to any of them, but then, if anyone deserved a win, it was Roy, the least troublesome of them all.
Ophelia stood behind the desk. “In two days, we have our third elimination round, and one of you will be going home. Till then.”
Chapter Eleven
“You’ve been in the background for much of the show. How do you feel about that?”
Roy sat straight on the stool and squinted slightly in the light of the camera. “I want it that way,” he said in his deep voice. “I let them have their childish spats, do their incessant bragging, and carrying on, all the while I just sit there. I’ve been to war. I’ve faced down worse than this. A sunburn isn’t going to stop me.” His lips formed a thin line. “This is just a different kind of war, a war that requires wits and talents instead of guns and ammo, but I’m a solider.” He saluted. “Never underestimate your enemy.”
“What’s been going on with your boy?” Dez asked as he slapped some mayo on a piece of bread.
Felicity eyed his sandwich with distaste and shoved aside her plate of half-eaten pasta. She was all for a good sandwich every now and then, but the way they affected this guy made it unpleasant for everyone in the loft. “Hmm?” It took a second for what he’d said to register, and then she was affronted. “My boy? He isn’t my boy, and I have no clue. I’m not privy to his private life.”
“You knew who I was talking about right away, so there is something there.” The man flapped a slice of salami in her direction.
“I’m really not in the mood for teasing, Dez.” She rolled her eyes and carried her dinner plate to the trashcan. She had no appetite, hadn’t since that kiss. Just the thought of it made her lips tingle and her core ache … again.
Dez chuckled, topped his sandwich with the last piece of bread, and took a bite, watching her as she scraped her plate and rinsed it in the sink. She could feel his speculating gaze on her. Then a thought struck her. He hasn’t spoken to anyone since that kiss. I’m not the only one getting the silent treatment.
What if it had nothing to do with her at all? And here she was being a diva over it. She’d jumped the gun and acted rashly then spent days avoiding him like a hurt schoolgirl. It’d be a wonder if he ever spoke to her again. Something told her it was up to her to make the first move this time. That’s what a friend would do, would have done by now.
He’d been brooding, quiet. If the group walked into a room — or even just her — he stood up and left.
She felt Dez’s arm brush her back as he walked past her carrying his sandwich. “I told ya when
you two realized only one of you could win, I’d swoop in and take this thing. Watch it, sweetie.”
Felicity gritted her teeth and dried her hands on a nearby towel.
Whether she won or lost, she didn’t want to lose a friend, and that’s what Victor had become. It was time to stop the foolishness.
She’d have to get the nerve to talk to him. She figured she owed him an apology anyway. And, well, when this was all over, she wouldn’t mind another one of those scorching kisses … that’s if he’d meant it.
“Vic, I owe you an apology.” Felicity’s soft words caused the ache in his heart to deepen.
“What the hell for?” he asked gruffly, not looking up from the magazine propped on his raised knees. He couldn’t look at her. If he looked at her, he’d want to forget his troubles, sweep her into his arms, toss her onto his bed, and kiss her. He’d want to throw this contest from wanting her, just to see her smile, to win her heart.
Avoiding her the last few days had been hell, but necessary. No more jerking around.
“Hey now.” Her tone was a mixture of hurt and confusion. “I know I was wrong, and I’m admitting it. There’s no need to get nasty. I’m holding out an olive branch here. I shouldn’t have let it go this long. It was childish, and I’m sorry.” A note of hope hung on her last word.
Don’t accept it. You’ll get distracted again. Make her go away before you do something stupid … like kiss her again. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault at all, none of it was.
“Look,” he threw his magazine down on the mattress next to him and stared up at her, hoping his face didn’t convey the longing he felt, “you were right, okay? It was just another ploy to throw you off your game. I’m here to win, not make friends. I thought I made that clear on day one.”
Her jaw dropped as those luscious kissable lips parted. Her eyes widened. Hurt flashed in their depths. “I thought … I thought …” Then she closed her eyes, just for a moment, and when she opened them, she stared back at him with a tougher set to her chin. “I think you’re full of shit, Victor Guzman. You run hot and then ice-cold, and I’m not buying it. It’s all some kind of act. Deep down under that cocky exterior, there’s a nice guy with something going on.” She stepped closer and poked a finger in his chest. He went to grab it to raise it to his mouth and kiss it, but stopped himself just in time. “I thought at first this was all about me … about that kiss … but I realize how stupid I was being. I’m trying to make amends.”
Plotting to Win Page 11